“I understand about Red Russell. Politics. Ran for higher office and lost. But why the focus on me?” Joplan asked.
“Cosmo’s got a sense of right and wrong.”
“According to whose rules?”
“Whoever’s got the power to enforce them. In your case, it’s Cosmo.”
Joplan thought for a moment. “What does he want, Riley?”
“Tell the feds everything you know. Answer every question truthfully, even questions they don’t ask. Answer them too. That’s it. Any holding back or lying, Cosmo will wonder if you missed the little hint he gave you. He might decide he needs to be more direct with you next time.”
Warfield was in his car when Macc Macclenny called. “Got the word from LaRez. It’s all set.”
“Joplan?”
“Yep. Ready to talk. And you’re not gonna believe how it happened.” Macc told Warfield the story.
Warfield shuddered. “So Joplan caved after hearing about Russell’s misfortune.”
“Well, Joplan didn’t exactly hear about it. Woke up the next morning and found Russell’s testicles in his cell — scrotum and all — wrapped up in a bloody towel.”
“God!” Warfield shuddered. “Russell alive?”
“He’ll live. Warden’s got him on suicide watch, though.”
CHAPTER 8
Warfield wondered who else would be present at the meeting with Cross as he waited for the guard at the Northwest Appointment Gate to let him enter the White House compound. Today was sort of an official turnover of Joplan back to the FBI. After Macc called him, Warfield wanted to get the ball rolling as soon as he could. Instead of flying to Atlanta to meet with Joplan yesterday, he had asked the warden to put Joplan in a private room and arrange a phone call between him and Warfield. All Warfield wanted from the conversation was to satisfy himself that Joplan was indeed going to talk. It was the FBI’s job to download him before the seven days expired and get the judge to approve continuation of his incarceration.
The phone conversation with Joplan yesterday afternoon satisfied Warfield and he’d called Cross with the news. Cross wasted no time arranging this morning’s meeting. Warfield thought the president was making too big a deal of it, however, and suggested instead that he get FBI chief Fullwood on the phone and tell him Joplan had had a conversion. Cross blew that idea off without even thinking about it. He wanted Otto Stern and Austin Quinn to attend the meeting along with Fullwood.
Warfield went to a reception area near the Oval Office where Paula Newnan was talking with Earl Fullwood. He didn’t know the FBI Director well but had met him on a couple of occasions, the most recent being a National Security Council meeting months earlier. The FBI Director was not an official member of the NSC, but, like Warfield and others, was invited when his input at a meeting was needed. Warfield’s first thought on seeing Fullwood now was of the scent of the black cigars he chewed on. Warfield remembered that the last time he saw Fullwood on a TV newscast he would have sworn he smelled cigar smoke.
Paula saw Warfield and walked over to greet him. She had the rare ability to maintain a sense of who she was before the White House, even in the midst of all the egos and pressures there. Warfield had seen too many others get caught up in the thin air of apartness that too often infected those who existed in the shadows of power. Warfield was having a laugh with Paula when he noticed Fullwood standing across the room eyeing the two of them as if he had just spotted two of his Most Wanted. A minute later Warfield walked over to Fullwood. Brown-stained teeth greeted him.
“ ’lo Warfield. What’s goin’ on at that little camp of yours—Lone Elm is it?” Fullwood had headed up his home state’s crime investigation agency before his present appointment. To Warfield, Fullwood neither looked the part of FBI Director nor acted it. Polyester suits. Thin, grayed shirts. Scuffed wing-tips. Forty pounds overweight. A seemingly-fixed scowl on his face. Warfield noticed once at a meeting that Fullwood’s socks incredibly didn’t match. Fullwood must have had some terribly damning information on the former President, John McNabb, who’d appointed him, Warfield mused. He thought Cross would ease him out and knew that could not come soon enough for the troops a few blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue at the FBI headquarters.
“It’s Mr. FBI himself,” Warfield responded. “How’s crime, Earl?” Warfield knew the Bureau’s reported stats showed a turn for the better in the last year, but an investigative reporter at The Washington Post was looking into allegations the Bureau had played with the numbers. It was a sensitive subject for the FBI.
Fullwood’s bushy eyebrows moved closer together but he hardly made eye contact with Warfield. “You’ve seen the numbers, Warfield. It’s down.” He crammed the cigar back between his teeth and went to the coffee pot.
Otto Stern joined Warfield. As broker and filter for information that reached the president, the national security advisor had the greatest degree of access to the president of all his inner circle.
“Otto. How goes it?”
“Warfield.” Stern said flatly. He was a solemn man with a calm, strong, monotonic voice. Warfield thought it all fit, including his name. Stern had been CIA deputy director for operations at the time the CIA mole Aldrich Ames was spying for Russia. In the Ames aftermath, Stern resigned. It had happened on his shift. The investigation cleared him but there were leaks that some members of the investigative panel were not one-hundred percent satisfied Stern should be absolved of responsibility. Stern went on to join a Washington think tank and Cross later brought him into the White House. Warfield had wondered whether that was a wise move by the president, because even a hint of impropriety by such a high-profile figure as the former director of the Central Intelligence Agency was never really forgotten, but gave Cross credit for having the courage of his convictions.
The conversations stopped. Cross had walked in and as usual started working the room with greetings and personal comments. He smiled when he got to Warfield. “Fleming DeGrande still happy?”
Warfield deadpanned, “Still has me.” Cross always bantered with Fleming at the times they’d been together. One night as Warfield and Fleming drove home from a function at the White House she’d laughed and called Cross a hunk. Warfield feigned jealousy and cried that Cross was too old for her and, by the way, he’s married.
Austin Quinn arrived and migrated to Cross after shaking hands all around. When he had gotten to Warfield he smiled and said, “Colonel, good to see you. You know, every time I hear your name mentioned at Langley it’s on a good note.” It occurred to Warfield that Quinn was always Gentlemen’s Quarterly perfect. Warfield was particular enough about his own appearance, whether in camo’s or a sport jacket, but Quinn was a male fashion plate with the addition of an infectious smile that exhibited perfect teeth. Warfield had never seen him even remove the jacket to his suit. Always wore cufflinks that peeked out beyond his coat sleeve. Never without a pocket square. Every hair in place. He must not ever sit down because there’s never a single wrinkle in his clothes. Appeared on Best Dressed lists every year. Shoes that looked spit-shined. None of this, however, diminished his image as a man’s man who was well-liked by his colleagues inside the beltway as well as the folks in his home state of New Jersey.
Warfield had first met Quinn at a roast in his honor in Atlantic City more than six years ago and his power and influence had ratcheted upward since then. As a U.S. senator he sat on the intelligence committee and became a frequent guest on Sunday morning TV news shows. He campaigned for Cross, and when Cross was elected president he named Quinn to be Director of Central Intelligence. Cross’s critics yelled cronyism but Quinn had since received good marks at CIA.